beachfront snowfall lamentation, frigid waves
lapping through the lobby door, vacancy
as far as the eyes can see
out by the abandoned pier, nothing but the sounds
of the ocean below, broken slats revealing obsidian
waves and shadows, broken timber, dark waters
crisscrossed by darker creatures who survived the end
creatures like you, aimless anew
all you own now is the ticking of a wristwatch
a small room that smells of damp mold on the top
floor of an old hotel forsaken by humanity and hope
until it too falls into the sea to join the rest, a cemetery
littered with carnival prizes, tawdry bones buried
in the murk, ‘til you too join them, aggrieved
when you’re gone, only ghosts will wade through
that lobby door, sloshing through the brine and
moonlight, their eyes watching the darkness in the dark
for the inevitable stormfront we all tried to outlive,
but it was too hungry, and when it came it took those
who fled as well as those who ran into its embrace,
ignorant ‘til the end—and now you creatures
who survived, wandering the detritus of decadence in
search of meaning, in search of dreams,
you are almost thankful for a place to go when you
slip beneath the dark seas, eager to find that other shore,
that other moonlit horizon, safe from the poisoned promises
of our communal failure, at last
James H. Duncan is the editor of Hobo Camp Review and the author of Beyond the Wounded Horizon, Vacancy, and Feral Kingdom, among other books of poetry and fiction. He also reviews indie bookstores at his blog, The Bookshop Hunter. For more, visit www.jameshduncan.com.
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